Each body has its art.

at a certain moment in social proceedings, I am on FIRE to leave: I have a leaving-FIT.

beware the easy griefs / that fool and fuel nothing.

What shall I give my children? who are poor, / Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land...

People like definite decisions, / Tidy answers, all the little ravelings / Snipped off, the lint removed, they / Hop happily among their roughs / Calling what they can't clutch insanity / Or saintliness.

I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker. It has always been hard for me to say exactly what I mean in speech But if I have written a clumsiness, I may erase it.

Each body has its art.